75 and Counting - Growing Old as an Individual - Saying YES

I turned 75 yesterday. 

Time to pause. Time to reflect.

It's not the getting old thing that makes me stop and think. It's the living thing. The living, the fact that I'm still doing it, and since I am, I have to think about how. I thought I'd be sliding into home right about now, with little left to figure out. 

I was wrong.

Living never ceases to bring surprises, you see. But it's only the results that surprise. The getting there remains mostly consistent. By now, someone in my stage of life has developed a pattern or a worldview we use to navigate this living thing. Mine is two-pronged.

First, it's an attitiude of faith. It's consistently looking for God all around and in every activity. Second - and this is not contradictory - it's individualism. It's a view forward that drives me to do something no one around me is doing. Community is fulfilling and enjoyable, but it's aloneness that fosters an environment toward creation and invention. lt drives me toward success but often at the expense of fellowship. 

So I have to be careful. Careful not to isolate or insulate myself so much that I become unaware of the lives and struggles around me. 

 

But I take encouragement from the understanding that Jesus was an individualist. He was always aware of His mission and where it came from. Nobody shared it with HIm. He walked His path alone and never expected anything else. He finished what He started all by Himself. It was always supposed to be that way. 

However, He did it perfectly because He drew a community around Him at the same time He was doing it. He moved steadfastly along in His appointed way and taught while He did it so that when it was done, others could not only begin to understand but were able to follow. As He moved along, He accepted both the credit and the responsibility for His actions.

Others will not do what an individualist does, but they will watch and admire and take inspiration from it as they realize that such things are still possible. The people in this world are eager for the recognition of achievement and I'm finding that 75 is not too old to demonstrate it can still be done. And I'm finding that the only way is a simple one. 

Just say YES to what life brings my way. YES to trying something new and unexpected. YES to what sometimes looks dangerous but is offered as an opportunity. YES to relationships with people not at all like me. YES to what I'm not sure I can do but am willing to try anyway. YES to what I don't think I deserve. YES to uncertainty. YES to love.

So, it's 75 and counting. Here's to it. 

Bird on a Branch

 

I saw a bird this morning. 

It flew past my car as I was driving to the gym just after dawn and lit on the branch of a tree right in front of me. It was a slender branch, the only dead-seeming unleafed branch on an otherwise greened-out luxuriantly leafed maple. 

And the bird flew right to it, as though none of the others were quite right, somehow too unavailable or just not good enough. But the bird got a bit of a surprise. The branch barely held him. It was too small, too exposed, and it shook and swayed from even his slight weight. Oops. He almost fell off.

But he didn't. He could have flown away all right, but hung on until, finally, the branch stopped moving. It was bent, for sure, but it held and he seemed satisfied with his choice.

Why did I feel like him? Choosing the least likely, the least safe, the most exposed place to land, and then stubbornly hanging on? I've done it for sure. And it's not the first time. You'd think I'd be used to this by now.

It all started with the bet I made with my boss forty years ago. I wanted a job I wasn't qualified for and he offered me a deal - he'd give me the job, but if, in six months, I couldn't get up to speed and do it well, I'd get fired. No safety net. Well, it worked, and the job became a springboard for a whole series of promotions and life opportunities. 

And I took chances again and again. When I got my race car. When I met and married my late husband after two weeks of dating. When I became a teacher with no qualifications. When we moved to the farm. When I sold the farm and came here. When I went back to college to study philosophy. When I started preaching and teaching. And now, when I, who am turning a ripe 75 this week, said yes to a new love that comes with a whole list of cautions but promises more rewards than any I've ever known. 

Yup. me and the bird. Landing in the least likely place and sticking it. My branch is still rocking. 

image: Etsy

The Sun is But a Morning Star

 

Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.--Henry David Thoreau, conclusion to Walden

Someone once reminded me that the stars we find so captivating are always out and shining. It's just that, during the day because the sun is so bright, we can't see them. In the end, then, it's not a question of beauty disappeared or hidden, it's more a question of having eyes to see it. We go to sleep with the stars and wake up to the sun, which is just another star, but one by which we can see and live. 

And that is what we're looking for. Beauty. Perspective. Vision. An uncluttered reality providing a clear path to living genuinely. Understanding that the star we want to wish upon at night is just another sun and that our sun is making its inevitable way around the curve of the earth and will show itself in due time. 

There is no darkness that does not eventually pass. There is no moment in the sun that lasts forever. Life, however, is incessant, insistent in showing itself regardless of darkness or light. Both exist all the time, separate but ever-present. It's up to us to walk with confidence into whatever is before us, knowing we are clothed in eternity.

Image: Morning star before sunrise, shutterstock.com

Life Near the Bone

However mean your life is, meet it and live it. Love your life, poor as it is. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. Life nearest the bone is the sweetest. --Henry David Thoreau, Walden

When HD Throeau want to live beside Walden Pond, he pared his life down to what he considered its essentials. The physical possessions he took to his 10 x 15 cabin, the one he built largely from castoffs with his own hands, were a cane bed, his green writing desk, a small table, and three chairs. He didn't do this because he had to, but because he thought there was something he had to learn, something that could be learned no other way than to remove all the clutter and the noise it generated. 

We usually have no idea how much noise surrounds us. I went to Alaska once, in 1985, and experienced for the only time a life without noise. We drove out into the what seemed like the wilderness to us, though in Alaskan terms, it was just, well, just Alaska. But we pulled over in the middle of nowhere, literally more than a hundred miles from any man-built structure, shut off the car and listened. That day, for the first and only time, I could HEAR the wind. And on it, the whirr of insect wings. And nothing else. No engine. No human. No bird or rustling of any animal, although they surely were there. It was just the earth. The earth breathing.

I think Thoreau had a similar experience by his pond cabin. Completely alone in a place that declared the vitality of life all around him. And he chronicled it. The birds, the fish, the habits of plants, the beavers. He had visitors, to be sure, but left the distinct impression that they were far less interesting than the revelations nature provided. And the revelation that stuck was that the material things we hang on our lives are too easily mistaken for life itself. Life is best lived, he thought, without as many of them as we can manage. Even undisturbed cartons stored in a shed or a basement exert a silent claim on our lives, a claim of attention and awareness. They are just THERE. Thoreau wanted to evaluate their noise and, living in the woods, he did.

He eventually went back to what we call civilization, of course, but with a renewed attitude, one he wanted to share with us. Hence the book. I am in a place in life where I have a chance, another chance, to do something similar, to sell my clothes and other possessions, if you will, so that I can lay final claim to my thoughts. I am paring my life down to see whether I can find the bone of it and I'm encouraged by HD's happy ending.

I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

Bravo, HD. I endeavor to similarly advance.

Image: The Reader's Thoreau

Recognizing the Call

Hearing and listening. They aren't the same thing. We can hear before we listen. Listening is intentional. And the difference is important because the whole idea of listening is inherent in developing a deep life of faith. 

The admonition to listen is everywhere in the Old Testament - The Israelites are told to listen to God over and over, to listen to their prophets, and to listen to their king. Samuel presents himself to God by telling Him, "Speak, Lord, your servant listens." Psalms and Proverbs, the pleas and the wisdom, all include God and His servants listening. And of course, Jesus ends many parables with the final thought, "He who has ears, let him hear."

And you know why?

Because God is always calling. 

And we are not always listening.

Instead, we're usually talking.

"God, I pray for this." 

"God, please do that."

"God, why did you do (or allow) this?"

We just need to shut up once in awhile. If there are answers to these questions, they are not in the noise of prayers or even of worship. They are in that still, small voice we keep talking about but rarely heed.  They are in the silence because in silence is communion and, in communion, few answers are required. 

Oswald Chambers said, "The call of God is like the call of the sea. No one hears it but the one who has the nature of the sea in him." 

He who has ears for God will hear Him. 

Image: dreamstime

The Price of Consolation - Living Like a Desert Father

 

Some words have more than one meaning. Take 'Consolation', for instance. In its most common use, it can mean the sweet ministrations of empathy given in a difficult moment. To a comtemplative, however, - that is, someone who works to develop their spiritual life through meditation and/or study - it means something quite different. It means achieving and maintaining life in the presence of God. Consolation = Connection and fellowship with God. 

The Desert Fathers, early Christian hermits, ascetics, and monks, lived in the deserts of Egypt, Palestine, and Syria starting around the 3rd century AD. They left the cities to seek a life of deep solitude, unceasing prayer, and spiritual combat. Sound like fun? Well, maybe not. But they discovered something many of us actively seek when we take Christ at His word that He wants to give us Peace. 

"My peace I give to you. My peace I leave with you." (John 14:27) We say it all the time, don't we? We wish it for one another. We pray for it. 

But Peace costs something.

I was reading an article in America magazine recently about a young woman who hung up a fulfilling career to have children and raise them at home and was trying to manage the transition, perform her daily tasks, and maintain a relationship to God. Not surprisingly, she found this difficult because her new life held none of the intellectual challenge of the old. Oh, it held challenges, all right, but rather than complex problem solving and quick, tangible results, it held day after day of repetitive tasks done mostly in isolation. 

It was tough for awhile until she understood that her life resembled that of the desert fathers, who did not seek worldly success but chose instead a life of solitude, of repetitive and mundane tasks, and those tasks became essential to their paths to God. 

Are they boring? Yes. Who likes changing diaper after diaper, or washing dishes meal after meal without visible end? But it's the daily tasks that offer the brainspace for prayer. It's in the mundane that stillness is available and peace can be found. 

Want peace? This is where it can be found: in regular, intentional separation from the world; in inner quiet; in repetitive manual labor. You already know it's not found in the busyness of packed schedules or in our retreat into entertainment and devices or in homes overloaded with stuff and the shopping that gets them that way. 

When folks recommend meditation and quiet times, this is the reason. They are looking for peace. And in this confusing and hectic world, even at the price, it is worth it. 

Image: Dreamstime

Being Abraham

 

Abraham had a tough life. Sure, God considered him a friend in a way many of us can barely imagine, but really, theirs wasn't the kind of friendship most of us would relish. 

He never really got to settle in. First, God told him to leave his home in Ur without giving him a destination. That's it. Just leave. Not go to the next town or to Jerusalem or to Detroit. Just go. And, remarkably, Abraham seemed content with that. He went. Just like that, one day at a time, and ended up in Haran, after 600 miles on foot with his whole household. 600 miles.

He stayed there for awhile, and then God told him to get up and leave again, this time to the promised land in Canaan. Another 400 miles. On foot. To a land already occupied with folks they had to evict by force. And Abe did it. 

When he got there, God told him he would have a son. His wife had a few chuckles over that because of their advanced age, but Abe believed it and waited. He waited 25 years and no son came. His wife got impatient and tried to make it happen, but that didn't work out the way she planned and finally, when Abe was 100, his wife had a baby. 

Later, God told Abraham to kill his son. Yup, the same one he waited 100 years for. And Abraham prepared to do it.

Well, I feel a lot like Abraham these days. I can see what God has done and what He is doing and think I can see what God wants me to do, but for the life of me can't see how to get from point A to point B. It's like God is saying, "Go to Los Angeles" and then He breaks my legs. It's like He's promising me an impossible son. Just like Abraham. It's like He's telling me something is going to happen, but there is no possible way it can. 

And I guess that's the point. Trusting God (or anyone, for that matter) really depends on not understanding how impossibilities can actually happen. It's doing as much as we can in obedience and love, then letting the person responsible for getting the rest done just do it. After all, our aim is to fulfil God's purpose, not our own, or is supposed to be. And if the purpose is not ours, then the method by which it is accomplished is not ours, either. 

The simple way is to say it's a matter of relinquishing control, and that's probably true, but it's more than that. It's believing God is God. It's understanding the nature and reality of love. It's acknowledging that our greatest strength doesn't lie in strength of character, natural virtue, knowledge, or experience. Our greatest strength lies in our connectedness to God. It's remembering that our first and best purpose is not to succeed in our plans. It's to follow, like Abraham, where we're pointed, content to not understand why. 

Maybe that's what will make me a friend of God, too. 

Image: Crosswalk.com